


you spoke my language (and touched my limbs)

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: also Intricate Rituals, it's only briefly alluded to but they're both trans, mostly it's just the two of them being absurdly enamoured of each other, this is like stupidly soft actually, tinniest bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 18:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “We should have sex,” says Ian; apropos nothing. They’re in Egypt; have run into each other. Off-mission, in both their cases. The moon shines down balefully on them. It’s stiflingly hot—even in the night, as it’s mid-summer.Yassen raises a brow. Drawls, “You are terrible at foreplay.” He’s wearing black on black as usual. He can see the perspiration on the other’s brow and feels smug knowing no such weakness is visible in himself.Ian scowls. “Fine,” he says. Runs his fingers up the side of his jaw and sighs. “I think I need a shave,” he says, mournfully; and bats his eyes at Yassen. “Will you please help me?”Yassen nearly laughs at him; incredulity bubbling up like a hot spring in his throat. “Still terrible,” he says. “But fine.”
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	you spoke my language (and touched my limbs)

**Author's Note:**

> this lowkey started off as a dare i made to myself about finally writing a fic with smut in it and spiralled into a purple-prose filled 2k monstrosity with barely more than a few lines of actual smut. enjoy. (title taken from "dear fellow traveler")

“We should have sex,” says Ian; apropos nothing. They’re in Egypt; have run into each other. Off-mission, in both their cases. The moon shines down balefully on them. It’s stiflingly hot—even in the night, as it’s mid-summer. 

Yassen raises a brow. Drawls, “You are terrible at foreplay.” He’s wearing black on black as usual. He can see the perspiration on the other’s brow and feels smug knowing no such weakness is visible in himself. 

Ian scowls. “Fine,” he says. Runs his fingers up the side of his jaw and sighs. “I think I need a shave,” he says, mournfully; and bats his eyes at Yassen. “Will you please help me?”

Yassen nearly laughs at him; incredulity bubbling up like a hot spring in his throat. “Still terrible,” he says. “But fine.”

A flicker of movement as Ian pushes himself away from the wall. “Follow me,” he says; not turning to watch if Yassen does. Yassen wishes he could resent the man for his surety, but he can’t find it in himself to do so—not tonight, at least. 

He leads Yassen through the winding roads of the tiny town; bathed in moonlight, ducking around the corners, Yassen hot on his heels; seeming to enjoy practically having the assassin chase after him. 

They wind up in front of a three-storey building; white marble and limestone and a fancy façade that’s starting to crumble from the wind tearing into it. Ian leads him inside and up the stairs to room 201 and swipes the keycard and cracks open the door. 

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says; gesturing widely to the room. “Please, come in.” He flattens himself against the door to let Yassen slip past. 

Taking the room in, Yassen comments, “You have a king-sized bed.” 

Ian shrugs. “I move around a lot in my sleep. The bathroom is to your left.” He brushes past Yassen and into the aforementioned bathroom; leans over to open up the cupboard beneath the sink. His pants—black trousers—are absurdly well fitted and cling to his ass like they’re shrink-wrapped onto him. Yassen lazily takes in the view, smirking as Ian takes an exaggeratedly long time riffling around for whatever it is he’s looking for. 

When he rises, he’s holding a black bag in hand; and he hands it over to Yassen; who takes a look inside; finding an old fashioned straight razor and a bar of shaving cream. He looks back up, about to comment, only for his breath to stutter in his throat as he watches Ian unashamedly shuck off his shirt, biceps rippling with the motion, revealing his well-toned abdomen. 

Yassen’s mouth is dry. Ian catches him looking and smirks. “Wouldn’t want to get my clothes dirty,” he says, innocently, and begins to undo the fly of his pants. 

Yassen rips his gaze up to the ceiling; fighting the flush that’s crawling up his neck. “You will want to sit in the shower-chair, then,” he says; mind carefully blank. “It will make it easier to get you cleaned up afterwards.”

man’s smile is sharp. “You’re right,” he says; easily; and slips into the shower, nude; sits down on the shower chair, lounging gracefully. Yassen, straight razor in hand, suddenly realises that, in order to get a good angle, he’s going to have to be kneeling.  _ Hell _ . 

He keeps his face even; fills up one of the plastic cups on the countertop with water and takes it with him along with the bar of shaving cream and the razor; and feeling infinitesimally glad that the first portion, at least, he can do standing. 

“Head back,” he instructs; standing before Ian; and the other obeys readily. He tips the cup, letting water pour across the other’s jaw; moves his fingers under his chin to tip it the other way. He can see the ghost of a smile on the other’s lips. 

He begins to lather the shaving cream; watching it bubble against the other’s cheek; obscuring the stubble; and then sets it aside, kneeling, and takes the straight razor in hand; tilts the other’s head back and gently scrapes the blade across his jaw. 

Ian lets out a hum. “You’re really very good at this,” he says, conversationally. His hands have drifted to holding Yassen’s hips. Yassen tries to ignore the burning sensation of his fingers through the fabric. 

“I have a lot of practice,” is all he says; and pulls the skin taut; dragging the razor down with a quiet scraping sound. 

Ian hums again. His hands drift lower; one of them landing on his ass. Yassen resigns himself to the blush that he knows is visible, now, on his cheeks. Ian smirks. “Very steady hands,” he croons, “perfect, really...” He tugs him closer. 

“I can’t shave you if you’re practically dragging me into your lap,” Yassen says, exasperated. Regardless, though, he keeps his hands steady. The stubble is three quarters gone, now. “Does having a blade to your throat turn you on or something?” he wonders idly, when Ian tugs him closer again, and the knife nearly knicks the skin, Yassen only just avoiding it as he quickly readjusts his grip.

He accidentally brushes his finger against Ian’s lips; and the spy’s eyes darken; though he doesn’t say anything. Yassen swallows involuntarily; and Ian’s eyes track the motion, hungry. 

Yassen drags the razor across the final spot. “There...” he murmurs. He’s practically pressed up against Ian by now. he drops the razor onto the ledge. “I should...get up.”

Ian’s expression is beatific. “But we’re both covered in hair and shaving cream,” he says, brightly. “I should get us both washed off.”

He turns the water on; letting it wash over both of them. His hands move to brush the hair away from Yassen’s forehead, and Yassen finds himself leaning into the touch. Ian smiles. “Do you want me to wash your hair for you?” he asks; quiet, but perfectly intelligible. Yassen finds himself nodding without even thinking about it. 

Ian reached over to grab the shampoo from the ledge; squirts some into his hand and begins to apply it to Yassen’s hair; rubbing circles against his scalp. Yassen’s eyes flicker shut. Ian gives a pleased hum. “That’s it, darling,” he murmurs, and Yassen gives up trying to stay composed; lets out a soft keening sound. He can practically see Ian’s smile. 

The spy rinses the shampoo out; dragging his fingers through Yassen’s hair all the while. The water finally flicks off, and Ian says, “You can open your eyes.”

Yassen does; finds Ian sitting before him, one hand on the vase of his skull and the other on his cheek. He smiles at the assassin. “We’d better get you out of those clothes so you don’t drip all over the bathroom,” he says; perfectly sensible; and reaches for Yassen’s coat; easing him out of it. 

Vaguely, Yassen thinks that dry cleaning is going to be  _ hell _ , but he’s beyond caring; losing himself to the sensation of the other peeling the wet clothes from his skin. 

Once his undershirt is off, Ian runs his hands over Yassen’s chest. “you’re very nice to look at,” he says, matter-of-factly; and then: “stand up, please.”

Yassen does. The change in position brings him somewhat to his senses, and he says, “f you try and perform oral sex on me in the shower, so help me god—” but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Ian reaches up and presses two fingers to his lips. 

“I have  _ class,  _ thank you very much,” he sniffs; and continues undressing Yassen. 

Once they’re both nude, Ian rises as well; and ushers Yassen into the bathroom proper; pulling out a towel to wrap around his shoulders; and doing the same for himself. 

“Is this not inefficient for trapping body heat?” Yassen asks; but it’s not really with any intent behind it; especially since he can see how the next half hour is going to play out. 

Ian smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says, grabbing Yassen’s hand and dragging him out into the bedroom, “shared body heat will keep you warm enough.”

Amusedly resigned, Yassen follows after him; letting Ian manoeuvre him into sitting down on the bed, propped up with half a dozen of the fluffiest pillows Yassen thinks he’s ever felt. 

“Enough foreplay for you?” Ian asks; straddling his lap; and Yassen laughs. 

“Yes, alright,” he says; and gets a triumphant grin in return. Yassen leans up to kiss him, but a hand on his chest stops him; and he looks up to find Ian, amused, shaking his head. 

“Wait,” says the other; half a command; and rolls his hips, friction sparking between them. Yassen bites his tongue; holding in a strangled exclamation. 

Ian’s smile is smug; and he presses Yassen back against the pillows before repeating the motion; settling into a steady rhythm. 

Yassen whines. It comes out without intending to; and his expression morphs into a horrified one a second later. Ian laughs at him; hips stuttering to a halt with the force of it. “Christ,” he says, “you’re really horny, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” grumbles Yassen; cheeks flushed. ian’s smile just grows wider; and he resumes the roll of his pelvis against Yassen’s; slower, this time; more deliberate. Yassen’s own hips jerk up in response; and Ian rewards him by leaning forward to kiss at the juncture of his jaw; then drags his lips down his throat and to the hollow of his neck; then down, further, pressing kisses along the twin scars on his chest. 

Yassen reaches out, grasping the hair at the base of his neck, and drags his head back up, pulling him into a crushing kiss. After a moment, Ian cradles his face. 

Yassen closes his eyes; leaning into the kiss; fireworks exploding against the black of his closed eyelids. His fingers dig into the nape of Ian’s neck, and suddenly, his eyes snap open; white exploding across his vision as a frigid heat fills every cell of his being. 

Ian collapses against his chest. “‘s any good?” he mumbles; and Yassen bites back the unhinged laughter that bubbles in his chest. 

“Very,” he says; breathlessly; after a long beat; and then drags Ian in for another kiss. 

Ian parts his lips; deepening the kiss; and they stay like that, locked in kissing, for a long while; hands roaming over each other’s skin. Yassen finds the various bullet wounds, and traces them, while Ian runs his fingers over the knife scars on Yassen. 

Finally, Ian rolls off of him and onto the empty space beside him. “Maybe the bed was a bit excessive,” he admits. “A queen would probably have been just fine.”

Yassen chuckles. “I would have had sex with you in a cot,” he admits; still somewhat breathless; and Ian grins at him like an idiot. “I am not going hunting for a cot,” he says, sharply, a moment later. “We have a perfectly good bed.”

Ian shrugs; the motion fluid and lazy. “Okay,” he says; and lifts his head, dropping it in Yassen’s lap. 

Yassen’s lips twitch. “You are going to insist on having sex in a cot,” he concludes. 

Ian twists his head to meet Yassen’s gaze. “I just think it would be interesting to see just how adaptable you are,” he says; smiling lewdly. 

Yassen rolls his eyes. “How will I ever survive you,” he says, fondly; and drags a hand through Ian’s hair. 

The other’s eyes flicker; lowering to half-mast. “I mean, you have experience with a little death,” he says. 

Yassen tugs on his hair. “You are horrid,” he says, mildly; and Ian takes the opportunity to reach up and drag his hand to his lips; pressing a kiss to the inside of Yassen’s wrist. 

“I know,” he says; propping himself up on his elbow. “Are you going to do anything about it?”

With a sigh, Yassen drags himself up and tackles Ian; crouching over him. “I think I will,” he says, with a smile. 

Ian’s own is wide and feral; and his dark eyes are made darker by the dilated pupils. “Alright,” he says. “Do your worst.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
